all the camps and farms and follow a case through the
courts, so a slap on the wrist was all they got. A puny
two-thousand-dollar fine. Nothing to really hurt.”
“You don’t know that’s where it would stop next
time,” said Mrs. Harris, “and I don’t want to find out. I
don’t want to wake up and see Harris Farms all over the
newspapers and television like Ag-Mart. I don’t want
anybody making us an example. If playing by the rules
or decent plumbing or stoves that work and refriger-
ators that actually keep food cold can keep us out of
court, then it’s worth the few extra dollars.”
“But your husband felt differently?” Dwight asked.
“He grew up poor. We both did. And we both worked
hard in the early days. Out there in the fields rain or
shine, whether it was hot or cold, doing what had to be
done to plant and plow and stake and harvest. Wouldn’t
you think he could’ve remembered what it was like to
walk in those shoes? Instead, he griped that I was cod-
dling them. I finally had enough and when that little
redheaded bitch let him stick his—”
She caught herself before uttering the crude words
263
MARGARET MARON
that were on the tip of her tongue. “That’s when I told
him I was through, that I was getting my own lawyer.
And damned if he didn’t file papers first so that I’ve had
to come to court in Dobbs instead of doing it down in
New Bern.”
She sat back in her chair and pursed her lips while
Dwight made quick notes on the legal pad.
“What about you, Mrs. Hochmann?” he said. “When
did you last speak to your father?”
“Valentine’s Day,” she said promptly. “He didn’t like
phones, but he always sent me roses and he called that
evening.”
“Was he worried about anything?”
“Worried that someone was going to . . . to—” She
could not bring herself to say the words and sat there
mutely, shaking her head.
“Mrs. Harris, are you absolutely certain you didn’t
see your husband on that Monday?”
“I’m certain.”
“In fact, you tried to avoid all contact with him,
right?”
“Right.”
“Yet you went into his house that day and took a
shower and left wearing some of his clothes.”
“Yes,” she said.
Susan Hochmann’s head immediately swung around
to look at her mother quizzically.
